You aren’t lovers in Delhi

if you haven’t been to the bylanes

of Connaught Place together,

seen the broken balcony

above the chai-wallah shack

and shared the vision

of standing entwined on such a one

to encase the sun setting

into the abysmal cemented

terraces

but shared it in the space

between two separate heads

that which is better left unarticulated

and indistinct in shape

like the smoke released from

two separate cigarettes 

making love in the air,

 exalted.

Without-Another

(Inspired by Eunice De Souza’s ‘Another Way to Die’)

I would have imprinted my name

in the space between your ribs,

if only I liked my name enough,

and carbonated the eight letters so that

they may be clung to your skin

when your body is nothing more than fossil

And those eight letters would be

as dysfunctional as I am,

breaking into funny patterns

when you’re all alone in the dark,

when your brain shuts down

and only senses remain

because you don’t see maggots  

suffocating you to death,

or yellow bulls floating in the air

with blood dripping from their horns

-your blood-

only to realize that there is no

cosmic carousel,

nor a fantastic marvel

to your self-loathing.

Only being called out is enough to

make me realize that it isn’t your voice,

only touching my finger to someone else’s

is enough to remind me that it isn’t

your body next to mine.